Where the River Ends Read Online Free PDF

levitated down sidewalks like Mary Poppins. We were as different as two people could be, and why she chose me is still a mystery. If you could see me, I’m scratching my head.
    Christmas break my freshman year at the College of Charleston. I was working the late shift at the Charleston Place Hotel bar, located just off the Gone With the Wind double staircase that led upstairs. It was near midnight, I was bussing a table and four girls walked in. Everything about them said “Charleston.” Their walk, their clothes, the way they held their mouths. It’s not a snobbish thing, it’s upbringing. Sure, it could get snobbish, but in that moment, it was a seamless fusion of culture and class.
    They ordered cappuccinos, lattes and a sampler plate of finger desserts. I screwed up the espresso, burned the milk with the steamer and squirted runny whipped cream across the top of their cups only to have the canister erupt and splatter my apron—which at the end of the day is a pretty good description of me.
    They whispered and laughed ’til nearly 1 a.m. It used to be that when I saw a group of girls like that, my mind would sort of lump them all together. I’d see the group while no one person really stood out.
    Except her.
    She was one part Julie Andrews and two parts Grace Kelly. She was unlike anyone I’d ever seen, and trust me, I’ve spent some time studying pretty faces. With her, it wasn’t the high cheeks, the lips, chin or nose. It was her eyes—and something behind them.
    At Charleston Place, we catered to a lot of famous people. From Arab sheiks to Hollywood A-listers, the only thing uncommon is the absence of commonality. I knew she was famous, I knew I’d seen her face before, but I’d been on my feet for fourteen hours and things were a little fuzzy.
    Finally, the most giggly girl in the group waved me to the table. I tried to act all waiterly, refilled their water glasses and stood back, towel hanging across my forearm. Her friend, Elizabeth I would later learn, raised both eyebrows and said, “You keep looking, and I’m gonna charge admission.”
    Busted.
    I stammered, “Do I…do we…have we met?”
    “I don’t think so,” she said quietly, “but sometimes I’m mistaken for someone else.”
    I should’ve quit before I shoved my foot down my throat. I nodded, tried not to smirk, couldn’t and walked back to the bar where I wiped it down—again. They left cash on the table and walked out into the lobby of the hotel.
    I thought to myself, I know her from somewhere.
    When the four of them walked past the Scarlett stairwell, she ran up the stairs—her long legs covering two at a time—and then straddled the railing like a horse and flew down on her butt. It was as out of place as McDonald’s in Japan, yet as I watched her, I witnessed a rarity—a woman who had taken what she wanted of Charleston, and not let it take her.
    They disappeared out the front door under the amused chuckle of the doorman. His white-gloved hand tipping his hat, he said, “Night, Miss Coleman.”
    She patted him on the shoulder. “Night, Mr. George.”
    I leaned on the bar and poured myself some club soda. Ten seconds later, George sauntered into the bar, palmed off a table and said without looking at me, “Don’t even think about it.”
    I pointed. “Who was…”
    He shook his head and turned his back on me. “You’re not even in the same universe.”
    He was right. But that’s just the thing about those stars that light up the universe. They reach you wherever you are.

4

    JUNE 1, 4 A.M.
     
    T he rain let up so I stuffed the article back into my pocket, climbed back into the driver’s seat and eased off the clutch. At 4 a.m. we pulled into the parking lot of the St. Marys Sportsman—a combination pawnshop and river supply store for every paddler, fisher, skier and hunter in a sixty-square-mile area. Gus wouldn’t open for a couple of hours but chances were good that my key still fit the gate and warehouse, so